Glimpses
by MMB
Summary: A brief glance into the minds of our favorite characters.  Chapter 10 - "Patience"  NOW COMPLETE!
1. The Gilded Cage

Glimpses

by MMB

Chapter 1: The Gilded Cage

It was Sunday – and she had another hangover. As usual.

Miss Parker stood with bowed head beneath the pounding of the hot water on her skin, her hand on the smooth tile wall of her shower to help support her. She knew better than to drink that much – her entire day off would spent with a colossal headache that would make talking or listening to music unpleasant and a sour stomach that would signal her ulcer to flare and make all thoughts of food nauseating – but she'd done it anyway. She always did.

After all, what else was there for her to do in an evening? Her brief, beautiful time with Thomas had made any ideas of barhopping and a one night stand at the end of it out of the question. Thomas had highlighted the emptiness of her life before – and losing him to an assassin's bullet had only put the emptiness of her life since into sharp perspective. She now knew what it was to love – and any false approximation of that was simply unacceptable.

She had no family to lean on when things grew overwhelming. For the most part, her family – such as they were – WERE the reason things were growing overwhelming. Her father – if he really WERE her father; with all the conflicting DNA evidence, it was hard to know the truth anymore – was an emaciated and bloodless ghoul tethered for the rest of his life to an oxygen tank thanks to emphysema. He was a monster in almost every possible meaning of the word, capable of incredible cruelty and inhumanity to others, a horror to look upon, announced by the perpetually squeaking wheels of his oxygen cart as he prowled the corridors of the Centre underground complex.

Her twin brother – again, if he really WERE her twin; there was even more chance that the evidence establishing this could have been manipulated to serve an agenda – was a fiend. Lyle was capable of even more cruelty and inhumanity than was his erstwhile father – if that were even conceivable – and she had seen for herself the direct evidence that established him as a serial murderer and possible cannibal. He was sly, devious, untrustworthy, power-hungry – all viewed as positive personality traits by those who controlled and operated the Centre and its overseer, the Triumvirate.

She had a half-brother, but he had distanced himself and, if her suspicion was correct, had been taken in by his father – Jarod's father. Major Charles was as much a success as a fugitive as was his oldest and brightest son, and he had taken his youngest under his wing and fled back into the woodwork. Miss Parker didn't resent Ethan's choice of association; she herself was living proof that the Centre was a poor place to grow up – any chance for a more normal life, any chance for a loving parent who could undo some of the damage that had been done, was better than what she could offer him. Ethan was better off far away and untouchable.

The only family she had close-by that she could think fond thoughts about was the small boy who had lived all of his life in the nursery on Sub-Level 14 – the child who was supposedly another half-brother. His exact relationship to her was unclear in view of the fact that the man who had raised her not only wasn't her father but was functionally impotent to begin with. Still, she'd considered the infant her brother since she'd assisted at his birth – and until Raines had imposed a ban on her visits, she'd been very close to him. Being forcibly separated from the boy hurt – a lot. The loss of permission to bring him home on a Saturday night and care for him herself – play with him, read to him, love him – was only the most easily diagnosed cause of her latest and deepest depression and her new affinity with all substances alcoholic.

Miss Parker turned the knobs and shut off the shower, and then reached past the barrier of the curtain for the huge, thick terry towel that hung just within reach. Even though the water had been warm, she'd been cold – and the air on her wet skin brought out the goose-flesh. She worked the towel over her wet hair first and then wrapped it around her overly slender body, wishing that it were larger so that she could swim in it – hide in it. The towel was like her life, she thought in a perverse mood – not quite big enough to do what she wanted.

She had no friends to speak of – nobody that she could easily turn to in lieu of supportive family. There was Sydney, of course, but even he had proven himself untrustworthy over time. The silver-haired Belgian psychiatrist was the only one left who had been a constant in her life – there from her very first memories and still there in his Sim Lab, ever ready to verbally lobotomize and scrutinize her at a moment's notice. There were vague signs that there was a deep fondness beneath his cool and scientific exterior that would bubble forth under stress – signs that he would go to great lengths to hide from her and maybe even himself otherwise. But he'd lied to her – told her nothing about being aware that so much she'd been told about her past had been nothing but lies. His promise to her mother was to protect her from painful knowledge – and this promise had only managed to cause more damage in the process. She wanted to be certain that if he were truly fond of her, he WOULDN'T lie to her, but she couldn't let him close enough to find out for sure. No, he wasn't a friend – he was a surrogate father figure she didn't dare love, much less trust.

Broots was too kooky to be a friend; trustworthy, yes – friendship material, no. He was the quintessential computer geek, far more comfortable sitting at a keyboard and having his romantic interludes online – and in his own mind – than venturing forth in the real world. How he'd managed to marry and be the father of a lovely girl like Debbie, Miss Parker would never know – but having a daughter made him a unit, and she would forever be outside that particular arrangement. Broots was a coward whose loyalty to her allowed him to be coerced or conscripted to do just about anything she asked of him – but he had very little initiative. He spooked easily – and he was in many ways far too intimidated by her brusque manner and bristly façade to confide in. Not to mention that he had the weirdest of friends within the Centre hierarchy – generally freaks and misfits who had taken on menial assignments that sometimes were sources of great information despite themselves. No, he wasn't a friend – he was a colleague, and that was it.

There was Sam, but her mind very nearly skipped over him entirely. He was a sweeper – nothing more, nothing less – hired muscle and brawn to make HER seem more imposing and intimidating. He did exactly what she asked of him with no questions asked, and volunteered no thoughts of his own otherwise. Sam was a piece of Centre furniture that had legs and wore a black business suit – she'd never even stopped to consider if he had feelings to begin with.

Miss Parker shivered her way into her bedroom and dug through her drawers for fresh lingerie and something comfortable – and not business-like – to wear on her one day of rest. Somehow silk and satin and lace beneath a soft sweatshirt and pants didn't seem like too much, and a pair of soft white athletic stockings and deck shoes finished her "look" for the day. She seated herself at her vanity and gazed at herself in the mirror – dark, wet hair hung limp at the sides of her face, her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, her mouth thin and prone to scowling, and the beginnings of worry lines between her carefully manicured eyebrows.

When had it gone wrong, she asked herself? She had money – more than enough of it – and the will to use that money to get her anything she wanted. She knew that many found her attractive – all it would take would be a little effort on her part to put her porcupine personality through a radical adjustment, and she'd have friends and acquaintances to burn. So why was she sitting here with no idea how she was going to spend an entire twenty-four hours away from the Centre, her hair in wet strings, her eyes looking as if she hadn't slept a wink, her stomach turning and her head pounding? When had making the effort no longer been worth it? She ran the brush through her hair, pulling the wet strings back against her skull and out of her face – and sighed. That hadn't helped either.

A slight turn of the head brought her gaze to the window of her bedroom – a blue sky clearly visible beyond. Jarod wouldn't hesitate – he'd be out in the sunlight, making friends with strangers, if she knew him at all. He had walked away from the darkness of the Centre and could now enjoy the light of life free of everything except the need to watch over his shoulder constantly. She was free to come and go as she wanted, but was less free than he was. It wasn't fair!

She wandered down the stairs and out into her living room, not entirely sure what had brought her there. The door to her mother's studio – the door that Thomas had installed so that she could touch the refuge her mother had created for herself so many years ago – had been locked for several years now. Her mother – the one person in her life she'd loved openly and unconditionally and completely – had lied to her too. She'd pretended to commit suicide, and had lived nearly a half year yet carrying a half-brother that would be grown before he'd ever know his half-sister. She hadn't been able to face that sunny room since discovering that deep and complete betrayal by the one person she'd thought she could trust completely. She still loved and cherished her memories of her mother, but now there was a limit to that love and regard.

Every day, she stood in front of that door – often after a long and tiring day at work – and still couldn't bring herself to forgive her mother for what she'd done. Today was no different.

Miss Parker turned and picked up her old-fashioned glass from the coffee table, where she'd left it, and carried it into the kitchen. She dumped out the melted remains of the ice cubes that had chilled the whiskey the night before and placed the glass in the top drawer of the dishwasher with all the others.

It was too early to start drinking again, and there was nothing that actually needed to be done – and nothing she genuinely wanted to do, nobody to talk to, nowhere to go. Having a housekeeper once a week take care of dust, fingerprints and dust bunnies meant she didn't even have chores that needed attention. Her eyes fell on the briefcase that she'd placed on the floor next to the phone table near the front door – and she heaved a big sigh.

She might be free of the Centre physically, but it held her in tight bond otherwise. It was ironic – it was obscene. She walked over and retrieved the briefcase and carried it back to the kitchen, granting the locked studio door one more bitter glare. She put the leather case on the kitchen table and moved to her counter to begin the ritual of making coffee that was only a little bit better than the sludge that Broots tended to make at work. The contracts in her briefcase were part of the boring make-work duties that had been hers since Jarod had ceased leaving many clues to his whereabouts and/or little crusades on behalf of the Little Guy. Even if she hadn't been drinking the night before, she'd need plenty of coffee to keep her from dozing off as she worked.

She tried to summon up her old disdain for Jarod and the merry chase he'd led them all for over six years now, but couldn't. His cage had been miserable, and he'd escaped. He lived in the sun, went where he wanted and except for keeping an eagle eye constantly aware of the slightest approach of Centre personnel, his life was his to make of what he would. He WAS free.

Her cage was gilded, and she'd never escape. She lived in an underground facility, went where and when she was told and, except for in her dreams – nightmare, really – her life would never be one of her choosing.

And she'd better get to work. The day was half-over already.

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	2. Statue

Chapter 2: Statue

It was a practiced stance – face set in stern neutrality, hands either hanging deceptively limp at the sides or tucked carefully behind, legs shoulder-length apart, knees flexed. Only the eyes, sometimes hidden from view by dark glasses when out in the bright sun, would move and take in the entirety of the situation. Yet despite the illusion of being relaxed and at rest, the body was taut like a tightly-strung bow, ready to snap into action at the slightest provocation – or a simple word or glance from the proper person.

Sam knew his place in the Sim Lab – in the corner by the door. He also knew the reason for his being there – ostensibly to guard the three who were the point unit in the hunt for the escaped Pretender. Then again, he thought as he had millions of times in the past ten years of service directly assigned to Miss Parker, what threat would dare penetrate seventeen floors beneath the ground – other than a threat that existed within the Centre itself all along, that was? And he could think of quite a few of those that had arisen over the years: Raines, Cox, Lyle, Willy…

The latter name came with a bitter taste to it – and a reminiscing that didn't necessarily disturb the process of being a sentinel. Sam and Willy had been recruited by the Centre at roughly the same time – their training had been simultaneous and sometimes cooperative. Willy had been a thug and a rapist, rescued from yet another confrontation with the state judicial system by the Centre. Sam knew his own history to be no less unsavory – he'd been the bulk and the muscle behind a very profitable racketeering scheme in a low-rent area of East Los Angeles, equally destined for yet another retreat behind bars at state expense until whisked all the way across the continent by an organization that nobody knew about – or didn't dare mention if they DID know.

Willy's rise within sweeper ranks had been meteoric, however, due to his willingness to do absolutely anything asked of him regardless of how inhuman or sadistic. Sam, while certainly capable of ignoring the suffering of others or inflicting a goodly portion of it himself, didn't have that same sadistic, cruel, inhuman streak to him that Willy had – and that had meant that when William Raines had come looking for a personal sweeper, he hadn't even bothered applying for the job. When Miss Parker had come looking, however, she'd come looking for someone who was expert in every last martial art or form of weaponry known – and Sam knew he'd found his place at her side. He'd done everything in his power to keep himself right where he'd landed at last, and for a long time had been content – more or less.

Those first few years with her at Corporate had been boring ones, and his job had been purely cosmetic. Miss Parker was in charge of Security, and he'd been image enhancement for her. His height and bulk next to her slender form had strengthened the perception of her as tough and no-nonsense to those who weren't acquainted with her. Once a person had met the Ice Queen, however, his presence had been superfluous. And yet, she'd kept him around.

When ordered out of the Corporate skyscraper in New York City, where she'd been responsible for overseeing Centre security around the globe, and into the underground facility at the Centre headquarters in Blue Cove in order to take charge of retrieving an escaped Centre asset, she'd brought Sam with her. And suddenly, life as Miss Parker's personal sweeper was anything BUT boring. There were cross-continental flights at the drop of the hat, and foot chases that started out so promisingly and inevitably ended up being so futile. The boring persisted too, unfortunately – the process of sorting through and analyzing the detritus of Jarod's various lairs and hideouts was a task for Sydney and Broots and Parker alone, and his input was neither desired nor requested. Those were the days he manned his post by the Sim Lab door and adopted "the position" he'd learned during training. Those were the days he became a statue – a part of the scenery there.

In between the exciting and the boring were those times when Miss Parker had him do things outside the normal definition of his job – taking care of the small daughter of her coworker Broots being one of them. Sam had enjoyed every part of that particular assignment, despite the fact that Miss Parker found plenty of excuses since to give him a bad time for not wiping the floor with an eleven year-old girl at checkers. For the first time in a very long time, he'd had the chance to just be himself with someone who had no reason to be practicing guile – and no amount of kidding could change how much he'd enjoyed that respite.

But now…

It had been months since the last time they'd had a "hit" on Jarod that showed even belated promise – and standing near the door of the Sim Lab in "the position" for day after day, week after week, month after month was growing very old. Sam knew that he wasn't the only one that was wearing down. The cast of characters likely to push through those pneumatic doors had changed considerably lately. Miss Parker's father was dead – rumor had it that he'd just walked out an open hatch of an air liner over a stormy, night-time Atlantic ocean. Her father's latest wife was dead too – dying in childbirth long before her husband. Mr. Cox – an associate referred to Raines courtesy of the Triumvirate – had been withdrawn abruptly to Africa after what was rumored to be a botched attempt by Raines to bomb an international convention of peace advocates. Mr. Lyle, Miss Parker's sinister twin brother, was far less likely to visit now that the two siblings were in a competition to be the first to bring the escaped Pretender back to the fold. Only Mr. Raines and Mr. Lyle would come calling now – giving him reason to be patient and play his part as statue and sentinel.

Knowing that the three in the Sim Lab would be paying attention to just about anything but him and what he was looking at, Sam let his eyes rest on his boss. She was doing the best she could to broadcast an attitude of confidence and business-as-usual, but to those who knew her as well as he did now, signs that she was visibly tiring were all too obvious. That she was growing more and more desperately unhappy with each passing day was obvious in the fact that she no longer had that smart snap to her step or the steel spring in her back. The growl in her voice was half-hearted now.

Sam's eyes wandered to the others. Sydney knew that something changed. He'd seen the old psychiatrist watch Miss Parker's actions carefully on the rare occasion when he could get away with it without causing comment, and he'd seen the quick flash of worry on the old man's face. Broots was watching both of the others, no less worried in his turn. The computer tech just hid his concerns expertly beneath his generally cowardly flakiness.

But Sam had resources the others did not. He spent time with other sweepers, among which there was an active and unusually accurate rumor mill. There were locker room bets being made now that Miss Parker's continued lack of success at being able to bring in even a hint of where Jarod had found to hide was going to be costing her politically soon. He hadn't participated in any of the bets, of course – that would be disloyalty of a magnitude even he couldn't abide. On the contrary, he'd kept his ear to the ground, in case any of the sweepers associated with Raines or Lyle decided to discuss what was going on in either of those camps. It was one of the few ways in which he could actively participate with his team.

After all, neither Broots nor Sydney would want or even expected to hear HIS perspective on much of anything else. He was a sweeper – period, end of statement. He was muscle, unthinking and unquestioning in response, uncritical of the demands put upon him. For the last few months, he'd been a statue near the door of the Sim Lab. He was a bit of Centre décor.

No, he wasn't – but that was the way everyone thought of him. Sometime it suited his purpose.

What would happen, he wondered, if late some evening, when everyone but the old psychiatrist had vacated the Sim Lab, Sam stepped out of his customary spot and brought HIS concerns to him – let the old psychiatrist in on the skuttlebutt from the sweeper's locker room? Sydney was one of those people whose reactions could never be predictable – chances were about even that he'd be told to butt out of something that was none of his concern just as quickly as he'd be invited to consult with the other two.

Sam let his eyes sweep across the faces of the three with him in the Sim Lab. Despite everything, they were his coworkers – he cared about them. He spent more time with these people than he did with anyone else, and had been doing so for far more years than he wanted to admit. And as time continued to flow by with nothing making the situation much better for any of them, he was finding he wanted to be considered as something more than just a tall, silent Centre man-in-black – more than just image enhancement.

Sam took a deep, cleansing breath and mentally shook out the cobwebs. Who was he fooling?

He WAS just a bit of Centre décor – a big, burly, intimidating statue by the Sim Lab door. Not one of these people had ever given any inclination that they thought of him as anything else. In true sweeper style, he was expected to watch and not comment – act but not advise. His advice, his concerns – indeed, his very humanity – were neither required nor desired of him. He had his place – he knew his place – and he knew the penalty for stepping out of place. It was a penalty he really didn't want to have to pay.

And so he'd remain a statue by the door, always watching, never speaking.

God help them all!


	3. Multitasking

Chapter 3: Multitasking

The computer screen flickered as fingers flew across the keyboard, the machine trying to keep up with the demands being placed upon it. Very few in the Computer Technology department, located in the very center of a nice, quiet Sub-Level of the Centre underground complex could make the mainframe flex its muscles quite so and jump to – but then, Broots had never been JUST a lowly computer tech. He just let everybody else think he was.

Broots had been one of the best and brightest to come out of MIT, complete with a Ph.D. at an almost outrageously young age and a marriage already on the rocks despite the birth of a daughter four years earlier, and the Centre had been Johnny on the spot with an impressive enticement package to lure him into their computer lab. The formal address that went with his fancy sheepskin had been one of the first trappings of success that he'd shed. He would have been the only one down in that den of geeks and brainchildren with a doctorate at the time, and he was ready to do whatever was necessary to fit in.

Broots watched the flipping screens of information, letting the knowledge soak in almost without conscious thought. His newest and cleverest of search routines was running flawlessly and _still_ coming up empty when it came to clues to the whereabouts of the Centre's most prized and elusive asset: Jarod. There were no feel-good news stories about some underdog or his family being assisted by an anonymous benefactor, no notices on the law enforcement web regarding anything that Jarod would latch onto as a foundation for a new Pretend, no reports of an unidentified man matching the Pretender's description that had been admitted to a medical or psychiatric facility in the last hour.

A quick tweak of fingers on the keyboard switched the display from the search program to a pair of chat windows, and Broots chuckled at the latest remark that had arrived from his friend in Purchasing upstairs in the left-hand window:

"You can't blame a poor guy for tryin'

To get his favorite lady to sighin'.

He decides, 'What the heck,"

And nips Miss Parker on the neck

Hoping her fists won't soon send him flyin'."

The two of them had been involved in a limerick war poking fun at various Centre personalities for the last few days, and at this point, Rudy was winning. Broots' eye slipped over to the right side of his screen, where he'd been deep in a philosophical discussion with one of his favorite ladies – June – who lived in Stuttgart, Germany. She'd been his favorite female online companion of late, and he'd even considered taking Debbie to Germany this year for summer vacation just so he could meet her. Unfortunately, however, she was signing off and saying goodbye; evidently her boss was starting to hang around, and she needed to get some real work done in short order.

At least that was one thing that he didn't need to worry about here in the computer lab. Where he had to worry about that sort of thing was when his services were called for upstairs in the Sim Lab. Miss Parker was all too quick to notice what was going on with his display and just as quick to jump down his throat about it. Then again, she was spending more time in her own office nowadays, thanks to a real silence from the escaped Pretender, and he knew that if Sydney caught him, he'd merely shake his head at him, tsk disapprovingly and walk away to leave him tapping on his keyboard in peace.

Another quick tweak of the fingers, and he was studying the latest forty lines of programming code for the new security system master program that was ostensibly his "baby," the work for which he'd be responsible when not involved with Miss Parker and her snipe hunt. It was questionable as to just WHO he was trying to lock out of the Centre mainframe; very few of his real hacker friends had been able to even scratch the surface of his last version of the same program, and the Centre had sold his program and his time to install and occasionally maintain it to several high-security governmental agencies for a very pretty penny. The bonus he'd earned for those little side jobs on behalf of the Centre had netted him a house that was nearly paid for, as well as the baby grand piano that Debbie was now learning to play.

Still, there was one person who tended to dance through his security protocols as if they were only so much tissue paper – Jarod – and updating this program had become something of a good-natured running competition between the two men. He suspected Jarod was only helping him beta-test the program half the time; the occasional anonymous email pointing out a serious weakness that others less capable could just as easily exploit supporting his supposition. He'd mentioned this to Sydney one time, and the old psychiatrist had merely nodded sagely and commented that Jarod's way of "making friends" might take interesting and unusual forms.

His mind burped up an idea, and with a sly snicker and another flick of the fingers, he was typing in his reply to Rudy in Purchasing:

"The point at which imagination strains

Is where the Centre has made the least gains.

If it were a question of style

We'd all want to be Lyle;

But for sheer creepiness, the winner's still Raines."

He shot his offering into the Intranet ether and waited to see the "ROTFL"s and "LOL"s appear in response. He was proud of that one! Satisfied that he'd stumped his competition for the time being, he tapped a key and brought back up the search program screen.

Nope. Nothing new there.

Another flick of the fingers brought up a new rendition of the search program, which he this time turned on the mainframe itself, searching for mention of Miss Parker, Jarod, Sydney, Mr. Raines, Lyle or himself. This was a favor that he did for himself and for his other teammates: keeping ahead of any of the internal memos was an important facet of his job working for Miss Parker. Several times he'd caught small hints of favoritism leaning in Mr. Lyle's direction from Mr. Raines, leanings that a little foreknowledge had allowed Miss Parker an advantage that had, in turn, helped Lyle look more incompetent.

Today, the subject was Miss Parker and Lyle's complaint that she was being less than cooperative with her information about Jarod's whereabouts.

Broots leaned back in his comfortable, ergonomically designed computer chair and thought about that one with some satisfaction. Lyle had a point: Miss Parker was less than cooperative with him, as was the rest of her team. It was supposedly a life and death competition between Lyle and Miss Parker now, and the conditions set didn't lend themselves to cooperation forthcoming from either side. Heaven knew the last time Lyle had shared with HER… It was an indication of a deep-seated double standard.

A soft bleep from the terminal alerted him to another memo flying through the Intranet, and with a disgusted look, he quietly brought a copy of that memo to his own display. It was Raines, telling Lyle to be patient; that Miss Parker had been given plenty of rope and was very conveniently hanging herself with it. The Triumvirate wouldn't be willing to put up with her inadequacies too much longer, and nearly six years on the hunt with so very little to show for it was bound to play out against her in the long run. Raines went on to gloat that pretty soon, if reports from Nairobi were any indication, orders would be forthcoming to escort Miss Parker to the Renewal Wing for serious re-education. That, he said, would be the end of the Jamison weakness in the Parker line.

A quick glance around the lab found most of the technicians on duty paying close attention to whatever they were working on, so Broots knew that he could escape for a little while without raising too many warning flags. Sydney needed to see this – hell, Miss Parker herself needed to see it! There had been rumors and rumblings of similar threats before, but none quite so clear or obviously anticipated with such relish by the Tower.

Uh-oh… A glance at the computer lab door at the movement out of the corner of his eye told him Lyle had entered the room.

Broots leaned forward in his chair, hit the print screen button to send a copy of the memo exchange to his personal printer in his cubicle, and with a flick of fingers on the keyboard erased the search screen. Back to the forty lines of code that would be indecipherable to anybody except an expert programmer, which Broots knew very well that Lyle was NOT.

Another flick of the fingers brought up the original search screen, looking for any possible Jarod sighting, still running madly and finding nothing. Fingers twitched, and the programming screen was back.

He could feel Lyle standing behind him, silently watching him work. He activated his printer again to print out the last one hundred lines of code. Putting the memos at the bottom of a pile of paper with gobbledygook printed on them otherwise would be a good idea right now. He reached for his Jolt cola with a hand that he very carefully schooled to keep from trembling. He didn't dare indicate that he either knew Lyle was back there or that he had anything to hide.

It was a long, silent moment while he studied the displayed lines of coding and added two or three new lines to them that in all actuality made no sense whatsoever, and then he knew Lyle had moved on. Without turning his head, he watched the Parker twin saunter slowly back to the computer lab door and exit without speaking to anybody there. Broots waited for a very long moment before he finally let out a long sigh of utter relief. Once more, the benefits of being underestimated had paid off: Lyle considered him more as a highly-trained buffoon than as an intelligent and crafty man in his own right, which was just fine by him. He'd worked long and hard to cultivate that perception.

The others were now watching him surreptitiously. Now would not be a good time to take his discovery upstairs to Sydney and discuss whether this was just more of the same kind of Centre intrigue that had gone on for years, or whether this constituted a genuine threat to the status quo. He flicked his fingers and checked the search program again, then turned back to the chat window. Rudy hadn't answered yet, which was just as well. He wasn't in the mood for any more limericks today. He typed in his excuse and goodbye and shut the chat program down.

One day, he knew, those around him would understand how badly they had misjudged him. He reached out a trembling hand for his Jolt cola and thanked his good fortune that it wouldn't happen today. A steadier hand on the mouse highlighted and then deleted the lines of gibberish from the programming code, and he settled himself down to concentrate.

On second thought…

He brought up the word processor and opened his first draft of a textbook on advanced programming that he'd been commissioned to write by his alma mater and found the chapter dealing with interloping conditionals and began adding cautionary sentences about the dangers of nesting too many conditionals within the same module. He flipped back to the programming and then returned to his textbook again to continue with his warnings.

There'd be time to talk to Sydney later. He considered running this past Sam, and then decided that to be another topic to bring up with Sydney. He'd seen the way the sweeper's ears had perked the last time he and Sydney had conferred about Miss Parker; maybe it was time to let the sweeper in and see whether Sam was a team player or loyal to his coworkers. If Raines were conspiring with the Triumvirate against their direct superior, it was to their mutual interest to lend an assist before things could get out of control.

But right now, HE needed to get to work, to go back to doing only two or three things at once. It was what he did best, after all...

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	4. View from the Summit

Chapter 4: View From The Summit

Behind him, the oxygen cart squeaked rhythmically as Willy pulled it along behind them. William Raines dragged in deeply of the oxygen that was being steadily pumped into his nostrils through the plastic canula, feeling his heart beat stronger as the life-giving gas permeated his blood and helped everything work just that much better for a moment. Striking blue eyes peered out at the Centre corridor from his sunken face and made those who actually dared meet his gaze look away quickly lest their audacity be seen and their face and name noted for retribution.

The knowledge that all of the power in the Centre was his to command was a heady stimulant all of its own – and one he indulged in displaying as often as possible to as many of his subjects, his employees, as he could. Fear of whatever punishment he could dream up and command as Chairman had replace the loathing with which he'd been regarded as merely the Chairman's right-hand man – and that fear from those whose lives he could directly impact was the stuff he lived on now. He'd long since moved past any point where he would be satisfied with merely a wife, perhaps a child or two, and a respectable position in a powerful firm like the Centre.

No, with old man Parker's suicide jump over the nighttime Atlantic, he had climbed to the very pinnacle of power. As Chairman, he literally controlled life and death matters for more people than he even dared imagine – not counting the minions who worked and slaved for him in the vast Centre organization. He'd coveted this job for more years than he could remember – and now, at last, it was his! Wielding the powers of life and death was intoxicating – exhilarating – and that adrenaline boost was a far better companion than any mere mortal could ever be.

Raines didn't have to look to know that Willy, his dark associate in more ways than just superficial skin color, was watchful and alert not only to potential threats that might loom nearby, but of the slightest sign that his assistance was needed by his master. Willy had carried him, guarded him, served as a confidante and a way to intimidate others in a way that a short, frail, emphysema-riddled figure couldn't. They were a pair – not quite but almost linked at the hip – with him as the brains and motivation and Willy as the brawn and the execution.

The two of them came to a halt in front of the elevator door and waited patiently. The trip from the fine office with its huge picture window that overlooked the sweeping Centre lawn that stretched all the way to the sands of the Atlantic to Sub-Level 15 and the Sim Lab that was the province of the hunt for the escaped pretender was one he made at least once a week lately. There would be the usual threats – made as much for protocol and because he COULD as for any other reason – and warnings to not let up on the efforts being expended. On the return trip, a stop-over in a ground-level office and similar threats and warnings would happen as well.

Damn Jarod! The most profitable Centre project ever to reach fruition had somewhere, somehow grown a mind of his own and the will to walk away and persisted in staying tantalizingly out of reach – and two teams of highly trained and well-paid searchers STILL couldn't accomplish anything.

Why, he wondered – and not for the first time – was it that Jarod had been such a success, and yet subsequent efforts to engender a child through in-vitro fertilization using similarly gifted but otherwise unrelated parents had failed to produce another like him? Was it Sydney's fault that Jarod had escaped – and was that why he could never be sure that the aging Belgian psychiatrist wasn't helping his protégé survive on the outside instead of working to bring him back to the Centre? Why was it that the one subsequent success – a cloning – had chosen to turn his back on over a decade of VERY careful training and vanish into the woodwork with the original's father? Why was it that the attempt to steal another youngster with the right genetic patterning had been foiled by the escaped Pretender himself – with the Centre constantly not only coming up short in the take-down, but usually looted to the tune of thousands if not millions of dollars now?

Raines sighed. Jarod was a blessing – and a curse. If it were anybody else, he'd just order his best assassins to take the Pretender out – eliminate him completely. But Jarod was too valuable an asset to destroy for all of the harm he'd done to Centre interests and his own, personal contributions to the Centre – and yet, there HAD to be a way to punish him.

He nodded in satisfaction as a thought slipped into his mind that Lyle had mentioned the other day – and he decided THAT would be the thrust of his discussions in the Sim Lab and Lyle's office today. The time of the computer search programs that dissected every news story, the time Angelo was obliged to spend searching internet sites, would be better spent in increased diligence toward uncovering the whereabouts of Jarod's family and taking them into custody. Yes, that was it. Such efforts would go a long ways toward bringing their lost Pretender back to the fold. After all, Jarod's one exploitable weakness was family – especially the one of which he'd been deprived for so long. That made them valuable bait – alive OR dead.

Raines closed his eyes. What a day that would be – the day the Pretender was brought back to the Centre! That would be the day that Sydney would be obliged to work with his old protégé under the supervising eye of Willy – or maybe even Cox. One way or another, Centre profitability ran directly through the Pretender Project – and that Project needed to stop hemorrhaging Centre funds and turn lucrative again. Capturing Jarod was the one, sure-fire way to accomplish that – but it was by no means the only possibility.

There was always the option of making the Pretender an unwilling contributor to continuing his heritage through progeny. There were many ways to extract genetic samples from a man – both pleasant and less than pleasant for the man in question – and those samples used in combination with ovum from a similarly pre-disposed female to engender the next generation of Pretenders. That was, after all, what had been done before. Jarod's sample mixed with ova gathered from Miss Parker while hospitalized for her ulcer had resulted in the infant that a former assassin, Brigitte, had carried to term. Believed by all to be Mr. Parker's youngest son, the lad was being raised almost entirely by and in the Centre – by professionals that he had personally hired and designated as suitable to the task. The problem with that is that young Master Parker was at a 'hands-off' stage, when all of his informational input needed to come from trusted guardians.

Raines sighed – he so loved to be right there, in the middle of all of the action. He'd loved to stand on an upper catwalk while Jarod had worked the more difficult SIMs years ago, and he hadn't lost that itch to be where the action was. Nowadays, when that itch overwhelmed, he could go down to Bioengineering and see how they were coming along with the newest cloning experiments. Considering the number of years and the hundreds – if not thousands – of failures prior to achieving a viable and fully realized Pretender clone, improving the process and making it more productive would have its benefits both in terms of new Pretenders for the Centre as well as technology to sell to agribusiness – and perhaps even the military.

The skeletal man indulged himself in a chuckle, not worrying in the slightest that the passing file clerk blanched at the idea that the Chairman was chortling evilly with no apparent reason. It was the stuff of science fiction that he was considering – the concept that society would jump at the chance to not have to bear with fighting its wars with the blood of its sons and daughters, but rather with the blood of artificially created humans designed with that one purpose in mind and no other.

The elevator chimed softly, and the silvery door to the small boxlike car slid aside on nearly silent tracks. Once more Raines focused on the squeak of his oxygen tank on wheels and cast his eyes about quickly to take in the reactions of those in the vicinity to its sound as he and his companion stepped into the vehicle. Were it not an outrage – and if he didn't intend to send sweepers to discover exactly who they were with word that they were summarily fired – he would have laughed out loud at the way people who were coming in this direction would abruptly about-face and head in the opposite direction. Fear did that to people – and the word of people losing their job for doing what everybody at the Centre dared do would just cement that attitude that much more firmly into place.

The door slid closed, shutting Raines and Willy into the elevator. Raines nodded, and Willy obediently pressed the button for SL-15 and then stood back, silent and ever-ready. The ride from the fourth floor of the Tower to the fifteenth underground floor took long enough that Raines had time to lift his eyes to the hole near the top of the elevator car.

Old man Parker had ordered that the hole never be repaired – that its presence there to certain people in the know would function as an effective warning – and it was one order that Raines had had no intention of countermanding until just recently. Sydney and, in her time, Miss Parker had been quite capably hamstrung by the memory of what that hole represented – although lately the knowledge that the event the hole was SUPPOSED to represent had been faked had removed much of its deterrent value. Raines made a mental note to himself to speak to the head of maintenance and have it seen to at last.

Damn Jarod and his pressing Miss Parker so effectively to uncover the secret to her mother's real end. The result of his interference was evident every time she looked at him. Where once it had been simple repugnance and distrust, now it was outright loathing, if not open hatred. And when the time had come for demonstrations of loyalty to the new order upon the demise of the old Chairman, hers – and that of her entire team – had been conspicuously absent.

The Triumvirate had noted that absence, he had no doubt. The African consortium that controlled so many of the Centre purse strings had since made it clear that while it supported his administration of the Centre, it recognized Miss Parker's and her twin brother's rights of inheritance as well. If he couldn't bring the Centre back into the black, then it was entirely possible that the Triumvirate would displace him rather finally in favor of one or the other of the twins.

This was why he was so set on keeping the sense of competition keep between the two. In the end, HE wanted to be the one to choose the Parker that was willing to be the most ruthless, the most cunning and the most persistent that would be the one to finally haul Jarod's ass back into his cell in SL-22 – and back into servitude doing SIMs for the Centre to profit from – as his successor. And making success capturing Jarod a question of life or death seemed the most efficient motivator for both of the people in question. After all, the Centre NEEDED ruthlessness, cunning and patience as prime elements in the character of the one chosen to lead – and capturing Jarod would be the ultimate test of all of that.

The problem with having to choose which one of the Parker twins to allow to inherit the coveted position of Chairman was that both exhibited a very specific and potentially debilitating weakness. Miss Parker's was a tendency toward the softness that had ultimately defeated and killed her mother – a tendency that Jarod, from the outside, sought to strengthen and enhance. So far, the efforts to keep that tendency under control had worked – but for how much longer, Raines had no way of knowing. With old man Parker gone, only HE was in any position to exert influence – and Parker's blatant, undisguised loathing for him almost guaranteed that whatever he tried to convince her to do, she would try to do the opposite. If left unchecked, that tendency to softness would mean that so much of the power base the Centre enjoyed, thanks to the Machiavellian natures of previous Chairmen, would be frittered away. Raines didn't want that – and no doubt, neither would the Triumvirate.

Lyle's weakness was far more difficult to control. The man was a sociopath – a success in that regard that Raines continually enjoyed – but had begun indulging in certain… behaviors… that could be disastrous. His obsession for stalking, kidnapping, raping and then killing oriental women had already brought the scrutiny of law enforcement far too close to Centre affairs than was wise or desirable. What was more, it was nearly impossible to predict when Lyle would simple vanish for a week, only to return with an odd and deeply satisfied smirk on his face that told of another body carefully hidden somewhere – he hoped. Raines had tried to make it clear that such activities HAD to be curtailed; but as with his sister, Lyle's overt capitulation merely disguised a hatred and loathing that would burst loose in rebellion – and another dead woman – possibly at the worst opportune moment.

The elevator gently halted beneath his feet and chimed softly as the door slid back once more, allowing the passengers an opportunity to disembark. Raines stepped forward, exiting the small car two steps ahead of Willy, who carefully maneuvered the squeaky wheels of the oxygen cart over the slide track. In front of him, the double siding door of the Sim Lab – once the arena where Jarod had been kept and made to perform, now a psychological research facility with Sydney reigning virtually supreme – beckoned. It was time to put aside thoughts of Lyle and his damnable murderous bent, of Miss Parker and her inner marshmallow nature, and of Jarod and his knack for tweaking the Centre nose.

"Let's have some fun," Raines said quietly to his dark companion, bringing a very short-lived but sincere smile to the man's face. The moment Willy had restored his stony poker-face, Raines began walking forward – knowing the squeaky wheels of his cart to be as good as a town crier announcing his approach. Already he could sense the frustration and dread of those who would be waiting inside the lab to hear what he had to say this time.

Yes, fear was a powerful intoxicant – and Raines knew he was the one most adept at both wielding it and enjoying the afterglow. It was a gift – this view from the summit of Centre power – and William Raines intended to enjoy it for as long as he could. He'd earned it, by God!


	5. Routines

Chapter 5 – Routines

Sydney raised his head as the lights flickered on in the Sim Lab and then nodded in satisfaction as he moved smoothly around the furniture and equipment toward the door of his office. It was seven thirty-seven in the morning – more than enough time to skim through the Dover newspaper that should already be folded neatly on his desk before rising promptly at eight oh-five to welcome the day's research subjects.

This had been his set pattern for decades – to enjoy a little time to catch up with the world before focusing his attention on Centre-related activities. In years past, those activities had been complex and occasionally dangerous SIMs and the days and sometimes weeks of prep work that would need to go into them on his part. Then, after Jarod had escaped, for over five years those Centre-related activities had involved attempting to understand so as to second-guess and thus recapture the valuable Pretender whose SIMs had been the cornerstone of the Centre's profitability.

Nowadays, however, with clues to the elusive genius' whereabouts becoming virtually nonexistent, those Centre-related daily activities tended to revolve around research projects that he'd once presented to the head of the department and now had received permission to undertake. Unless, of course, Miss Parker decided she needed his assistance – at which point any semblance of a routine schedule went straight out the window.

He pushed through the office door and settled his beret on the top knob of his coat tree next to his sports jacket before heading for his desk. Harrison was a dependable assistant – the newspaper was right where it belonged, along with a steaming cup of coffee fresh from the cafeteria two levels up. Sydney picked up the mug and sipped at it, grateful for an assistant who not only was just as dismayed as he at the quality of coffee in the Psychogenics lounge on any given day, but was willing to bring back TWO mugs of coffee in the early morning, rather than just his own.

Strange, he thought as he seated himself behind his desk, he'd never thought of himself as so much of a creature of habit before. His parents, he knew, had lived a very flexible, almost bohemian lifestyle. His mother had been quite artistic, and his father had been equally capable of creating furnishings that were works of art. The Nazis who had had charge of him and Jacob for years, on the other hand, had kept everything running like clockwork – and his life from that moment onward had always been lived at the rhythm of a ticking clock.

He stretched back into his chair and hugged his coffee to his chest. The only exception to that had been his all-too-brief time with Michelle. She had fretted dreadfully under his punishing obeisance to the clock on the wall – and had been slowly in the process of prying him free to resume a more flexible schedule again when she'd suddenly vanished from his life. With her gone, the clock and all it signaled had become all-important. He'd run his life by it – he'd run Jarod's by it too, in his time.

From the moment that Jarod was brought from his space and into the Sim Lab – usually around eight-fifteen – until nearly two in the afternoon, he had immersed himself in the work. Lunch had been a fifteen minute break – enough time for Jarod to choke down a dish of nutritional supplement and him to have his sandwich in his office – and then it had been back to work for the both of them. The afternoon ended at four-thirty on the dot, and he was usually ready to walk out of the Sim Lab at five-thirty sharp after spending an hour doing the requisite reports on the day's activities.

This was the schedule he'd returned to after the chaos of the hunt for his elusive protégé began to ebb. Once the day's research was begun, it ran until two, then broke for fifteen minutes for lunch, then ran again steady until four-thirty. On most evenings, he could still count on being ready to lock up the Sim Lab and head for the elevator at five-thirty sharp, with all the requisite activities reports duly filled out and research notes entered into the computer log for compilation by the night clerical shift.

On the way home from work every Tuesday and Friday, he would stop at the grocery store for food supplies to get him through the next few days – lunch meats and eggs for sandwiches for lunch, ingredients for a hearty stew or roast for baking for suppers. He took his time preparing his evening meal – a good pot of hearty stew could last him three days – a roast often twice that in leftovers. His later evenings were spent in reading through psychiatric journals and newly published doctrinal theses to keep his knowledge base and psychiatric skills honed to the latest developments in his field. Without fail, he was in bed by eleven so that he could get seven full hours of sleep before his alarm woke him again at six.

Only on his weekends and vacation days did that schedule vary at all – and even then, he rose at his usual hour; had his coffee and newspaper at the regular time, had lunch at two and supper at six-thirty and spent the evenings reading like always. What would have changed were his daytime activities. He had his bonsai collection to water and care for, his topiary bushes to keep manicured, correspondence to catch up on with colleagues and friends, laundry and other personal chores to get done. Occasionally, he drove up to Albany to visit with Michelle and even more occasionally, visit with his son, Nicholas. Very occasionally.

He sniffed, sipped at his coffee again and then put the mug on the desk to reach for the newspaper. So what if he was a creature of habit? Thing were done by the time they needed to be done, he didn't spend hours locked in a battle with boredom. Schedules were good things.

His eyes wandered over the headlines on the front page, finding them to be pretty much the same as they'd been for the last week or so – with the exception of the one local story about a young woman – oriental, if her name was any indication – who'd been found dead and dismembered in the woods to the north of Dover. The article, which he actually began to read, indicated that this was the third such killing in the last ten months.

"Hey Syd…"

He looked up to see Broots' bald head poking through his office door. "Yes?"

"Raines wants to see us in his office," the computer tech announced with a tone of trepidation. "Now."

Sydney sighed and put his paper down.

This, too, was starting to happen on a fairly regular schedule, now that he started to think about it. Ever since the plane crash that had put Mr. Raines in charge of the Centre, he and the other members of the team in charge of finding Jarod were being called into the Chairman's office in the Tower – if not put in the spotlight in a hideous procedure the Centre called a "t-board" for the shape of the table at which the victim was interrogated – almost weekly.

He doubted today would be so extreme. When Raines decided to convene a t-board, the person or persons to be interrogated were kidnapped from their homes – often straight out of their sleep – and dragged to the Centre in their pajamas and robes. This more straight-forward summoning probably meant a simple 'talking-to' – something someone as twisted as Raines would consider more in line with a pep-talk.

Sydney smiled to himself as he rose and moved to follow Broots back through the Sim Lab and toward the elevator. He'd not thought about it before, but keeping notes on and then doing an in-depth analysis of the new Chairman and his behavior might make points for him with the Triumvirate. After all, it would be an unofficial project, done completely on his own time…

The smile faded. Then again, what better way than to make an already confrontational relationship with his nominal employer worse than to write a scathing and critical review and send it to his boss' bosses.

He looked up as Miss Parker joined the two of them in waiting for the elevator. "You too, huh?" he asked dryly.

"Let's go see what Nosferatu has for us today, boys," she replied sarcastically. "I'm sure it will be just riveting."

Just the kind of remark that he'd expect from Miss Parker – and delivered right on cue. Sydney blinked at his own thoughts. What was it about him and his fixation with schedules today?

He'd have to do some serious thinking while setting up his research subjects later that morning. After all, he couldn't let anything like an obsession – however small – get in the way of his day's work…


	6. Posing

Chapter 6 – Posing

It was a careful combing that gently teased at the soft fur, settling it into a lifelike continuity over the seam where the hide had been cut. It took patience and gentle teasing to erase all the evidence that the little squirrel in front of him was less than the alert, wary little creature it appeared at a glance – patience and a very critical eye to create the semblance of life where, in reality, there was nothing but dead and chemically preserved hide.

Mr. Cox stepped back from his workbench and surveyed his latest creation, proud of himself. The mount he'd chosen had been perfect – the squirrel was posed sitting up on its haunches at the base of a tree with an acorn between its front paws – and would make a fitting entry in the taxidermist's competition in New York City three weeks from now.

Not many chose squirrels, he'd noticed – something about the difficulty with the tiny fingers was either beyond the skill of many just beginning or too time-consuming for those with more experience. Making those tiny digits seem lifelike again took painstaking precision and patience – things Cox knew he had in abundance. It was his precision and patience in other matters that had drawn him to the Triumvirate too – and the reason that he was indulging in his hobby in a New England state on the American continent rather than back in South Africa.

Patience, precision, medical training and a Triumvirate-endorsed sense of morality had been the exact qualifications demanded when Charles Parker had petitioned the Africans for help. His degree specializing in obstetrics and gynecology had clinched the deal for him, getting him away from South Africa before the bloodhounds could get his scent. No doubt those troublesome detectives in New London had run out of leads by now – and the case would be long since cold if and when he ever went home again.

Cox bent forward to check how his work on the eyes had turned out, turning the word 'home' over in his mind like the little black button he'd placed against the padding on the wire frame skull before mounting the head. Home was a concept he didn't worry about too much anymore – as long as he could be in a place where he could indulge in his hobby without too much trouble, he was happy.

The Centre was an ideal place for a man like him – Cox was extremely grateful that the Triumvirate had put his name on the list given to Parker for his consideration. And he had repaid Parker by being exactly the kind of man that had been desired – patient, precise, intelligent, loyal, creative…

Cox put the tiny brush down and stepped back once more to survey the overall effect of the mount and the specimen as a unit, not trusting his hand any longer. He'd been loyal to the Triumvirate's very detailed instructions – he'd cared for Parker's pregnant wife to the best of his ability and, with his expert sense of precision, erased all signs of her once her child was born – and it had all been for naught. Now Parker was dead, and a true monster held sway at the Centre who exercised total control and custodianship of the longed-for child that was supposed to be the 'savior' of the Centre.

For having had the lack of foresight that is the necessary tool of patience and precision, the Triumvirate had proven itself inferior - flawed. The monster – he'd chuckled in twisted appreciation of the irony involved in Miss Parker's calling him 'Nosferatu' – understood and appreciated patience and loyalty, but lacked any sense of precision. Neither Raines nor the Triumvirate deserved, or owned, his loyalty anymore.

His tea was getting cold at the end of the workbench, so he drained the cup and turned on the hot plate to heat more water. Raines was a quack – following the flimsiest of notions to their inevitable conclusions. Raines had initiated several new projects deep within the Centre; and with his medical background, Cox had been called in to consult on several of them. All of them, ultimately, would be doomed to failure – and if word ever leaked out of the vast underground facility of what deeds had been done, the Centre itself would stand at the brink of extinction. The premise behind the projects had been outlandish and almost mad-scientist in scope to begin with, the execution had involved legal and ethical violations of the sort that landed a person on a table with a needle in their arm.

And THIS was the man the Triumvirate had chosen to run the Centre?

Even Lyle, with his obscene appetites, had a better head on his shoulders than Raines. He knew – he and Lyle had discussed the problem often enough, and he'd asked the kind of questions that tended to uncover such things. Lyle knew Raines was leading the Centre down a dangerous and unnecessary path to ruin – both financial as well as one of reputation. So much could be overlooked when a reputable firm was involved, but lose the reputation and suddenly that which was best hidden risked exposure.

Homeless women didn't just vanish from city streets without eventually causing comment – not even so that they could be drugged into submission and forced to be surrogates to the latest attempt to reproduce a Pretender. So many were so damaged from their own drug histories that the result of such efforts was enough to make even the strongest of stomachs flinch and recoil. It had been his job, as the master of the Centre morgue, to examine those wretched and almost unrecognizable lumps of human flesh – to determine what in the process had gone wrong, if such a thing could be known.

Cox swallowed hard as he carefully arranged his tools back into their places in the drawers of his workshop while waiting for the teapot to boil. Only his training as a youth with his father in the mortuary had kept him from disgracing himself in front of the sweepers. And it was HIS signature on the death certificates of the women involved – so if ever it was discovered that the Centre was kidnapping homeless women, forcing them to carry a pregnancy, and then poisoning them and incinerating them like common trash, his name would rank with that of Mengele.

That he could NOT allow.

So now his patience, precision and intelligence was focused tightly on the question at hand: how to remove Mr. Raines from the picture without calling attention to himself. Actually, the ideal answer was to make whatever happened to Mr. Raines look to be the work of someone else – someone with even more reason to hate 'Nosferatu' than he had and who had made that hatred abundantly clear.

But Miss Parker was a hard one to pin down. She had her team – and despite the almost dysfunctional bond between them, they each protected the other exceptionally well.

There was always Jarod – his loathing of Mr. Raines had been more than adequately documented over the years since he escaped – but figuring out how to cobble evidence that would convince even Sydney of his protégé's guilt was virtually impossible.

He had considered throwing in his lot with Lyle – aiding the more capable Parker to take control of the Centre and lead it to new heights of prestige and power – but even Lyle had a flaw. One day, his unholy obsession for human flesh would catch the attention of someone who would tug on the thread and pull apart the illusion of sophistication and culture that Lyle hid behind – and his secret would be out. Cox wanted nothing to do with being linked with Lyle when that happened.

Miss Parker was too weak, too compromised by the paradox that had defined her existence – evidently since childhood. She was an intelligent, formidable woman; and yet she couldn't be trusted to hold the Centre to a stable course that rode the razor's edge between an immoral exercise of power and the ability to benefit billions of people in the world. More than that – she didn't trust him in the least. Jarod, in coercing her to know the truth about the Centre and about her family's history there, had also made it very plain to her that HE wasn't anymore trustworthy than, say, Lyle or Raines.

So, for now, patience was key.

The tea kettle hissed in a prelude to the sharp whistle, and Cox grabbed a pot holder and brought it away from the heat to fill his tea cup once more. The teabag floated to the surface, only to be tamped down into the water when Cox put his spoon into the cup. When the water had turned a lovely shade of dark, that same spoon lifted the depleted bag from the depths, folded it in on itself to be wrung of every last bit of moisture possible and then tossed casually into the waiting trash can.

Cox seated himself on the tall stool next to his newest masterpiece and studied it with satisfaction. The pose was correct, the setting appropriate, and the workmanship painstaking. Yes, this would do well.

As would he, here in his underground Centre home. His pose was correct – he could be for Mr. Raines whatever that monster needed him to be at the moment; he was in the best setting to accomplish great things. When the time came, and he could make his move without incriminating himself, his plan would be flawless, complicated enough to thwart detection, and executed without any error at all.

But for now, he'd pose like this squirrel – upright, aware, wary, obedient, capable. There would be no evidence of the wolf hiding in the wire frame skeleton, watching from behind little button eyes, just waiting.

Patiently.


	7. Behind the Throne

Chapter 7: Behind the Throne

Willy gazed at his reflection in the mirror just inside his locker door, making sure that he had not a single hair out of place – and then reached up onto the upper shelf to take down the leather-covered wooden box that held his gun. The last thing he always did before heading up to his boss' office to take up his position was to load his gun and slip it into the shoulder holster beneath his left shoulder. He then closed the narrow metal door of his locker firmly. He inserted the lock in the latch and closed it before spinning the little dial, then ran his hand down his dark sports coat to make sure he was ready.

Everyone knew he was the muscle behind the man who controlled the Centre – part of the reason that Mr. Raines, as short and skeletal and emphysema-ridden as he might be, was now and for at least fifteen years had been more respected and feared from Tower denizen to the lowly janitorial staff working the depths of the underground facility than even old man Parker had ever been. His was the dark face of doom that loomed over the shoulder of the ghoul, and making sure that he presented his image properly was just as necessary as keeping his Centre-issue Smith & Wesson well-oiled and cleaned and maintained. Part of that image was keeping his voice soft and low, almost gentle. It forced people to pay closer attention to him and was very effective when the desired effect was to intimidate, and presenting an immaculately dressed and coiffed face to the world.

He could only barely remember when he wasn't assigned to William Raines; after all, he'd only just finished the basic training all sweepers received when tapped to be the personal bodyguard of one of the Centre's most creative minds. Raines had presented a list of activities to the panel of prospective candidates and asked if they'd have any trouble carrying out such orders, and Willy hadn't seen anything on the list that he either hadn't already done or wasn't willing to try. The others had displayed squeamishness at the idea of using psychological coercion or even torture to accomplish at designated purpose, but he didn't. He'd seen Raines smile at his smile and knew he'd found his place in the scheme of things.

Even before his association with the Centre, he'd repeatedly demonstrated a willingness to disregard the pain or suffering of another. He'd done his share of muggings in New York before moving to Baltimore and discovered the sense of power that came from the act of rape and the profit to be made from breaking and entering. Seeing women fearful and cowed into submission to the point that he could indulge in some of his most violent and perverted fantasies had been addictive. He could have continued on his new career of breaking into the houses and apartments of young, working women and having his way with them before robbing them blind – but for the attention of one astute cop. He had signed the contract with the Centre recruiter while out on bail for a charge of assault, one step ahead of a charge of aggravated rape and grand theft.

Willy let his eyes touch briefly on the other sweepers readying themselves for another day's duties, finding a sense of deep satisfaction in the fact that few of them would meet his gaze. His reputation – both of what had come before his employment there as well as to what lengths he was willing to go to please his boss – was one of his prized accomplishments over the past fifteen years. The only accomplishment that meant more to him now was the level of trust and confidence with which Mr. Raines gifted him. Few were the times now that he would be invited to leave the Tower Chairman's office so that a high-security discussion could take place. If only some of the others knew that he, a mere sweeper, knew more about the inner, secret, workings of the Centre than even they did. If only they could appreciate the fact that, second to Mr. Raines himself, HE had keys to all the closets with skeletons and black projects; although the knowledge of what agenda each served would stay safely hidden, if he had anything to say about it.

Of course, if they ever found out, he'd have to kill them, and Mr. Raines wouldn't like that. Not that he cared that much one way or the other…

Calm and lethal, he let his steps remain slow and confident as he walked from the locker room toward the elevator that would carry him up three floors to his place at Mr. Raines' right shoulder. He was relaxed, as he always was after a long weekend when he had the opportunity to return to his old stomping grounds in Baltimore. He still maintained a very small apartment there in one of the old tenements where he could change from his persona of a well-to-do executive bodyguard back into the jeans, tee shirt and stocking cap of thug, burglar and rapist. He'd gone hunting – for old time's sake more than any need for quick cash or sexual release – and had had a very successful and satisfying time.

Mr. Raines didn't need to know that he still went on these forays from time to time. The old ghoul had told him often enough that he wanted his personal sweeper to remain above all possible legal entanglements with law enforcement, but Willy's obedience only stretched to work situations and hours. He'd be damned if he'd let some impotent and wheezing bag of bones and skin tell him how to live his life on his off-hours. Willy's dark eyes flashed with momentary rebellion, a look that no one around him would see because it had waited until he was alone in the elevator before relaxing his vigilance just a second or two.

Mr. Raines didn't need to know a LOT of things, specifically how independent his personal sweeper was within the organization. Sweepers, like other members of society, could be intimidated and convinced to pay protection. It had only taken a few arranged "accidents" – incidents that had left obvious fingerprints for those who knew where to look and what to look FOR – for the meeker sweepers to capitulate with a certain portion of their regular paychecks. Today would be one of those days when Willy would walk through the Centre facility from top to bottom during his lunch hour. Going without lunch was a small price to pay for the cash he would reap from his "touches". The money, on top of an already generous salary from Raines, kept him comfortably housed in one of the nicer neighborhoods in Blue Cove, driving a new and expensive sports car and fattening a bank account that could now easily support him until his death if, for some reason, he'd lose his job tomorrow.

Actually, he doubted that Mr. Raines would be able to do very much about his enterprise even if he DID find out about it. After all, the only strength that Mr. Raines feared was that wielded by the African consortium, and they hadn't been hanging around the Centre much since the hunt for Jarod had been discontinued and other, more profitable, projects proposed in place of the Pretender Project. Willy doubted that Mr. Raines would call the Africans in to bring him under control either. Mr. Raines himself had very quietly been enterprising in his turn during the administration of old man Parker. He should be able to understand his bodyguard's driving need to retain control of his own destiny.

The elevator door slid quietly aside, opening to the bright and window-lined corridor that stretched the entire length of the Centre building to the etched glass doors that were the portal to the Chairman's office. It was still early enough that Mr. Raines' secretary had still not arrived; Willy preferred his entrance to his boss' office to be without witness. If, one day, something occurred that would reflect badly on him, it would be better if the time of his coming and going wasn't known.

The etched doors swung open on silent hinges, opening to the otherwise empty office. Even Mr. Raines was late arriving this morning, Willy discovered. Perhaps it was something about it having been a long holiday weekend, for people who were normally prompt were dragging in late. Mr. Raines was one of the most prompt of the lot, and Willy moved to his regular spot behind the massive and carved desk while considering the possible reasons that the old man would be running late.

Perhaps he had stopped in down below in the Genetic Engineering Lab to look over the new crop of clones and in vitro projects. He knew Mr. Raines was banking on one of the projects making use of the ample supply of the Pretender Jarod's genetic material would bring forth yet another suitable replacement for the escaped genius. This time, however, Mr. Raines had determined that all experimentation would take place within the Delaware Centre facility itself. Pakor Frozen Foods and the laboratory at Donoterase had both been compromised at least once, and the Alaskan lab had never been rebuilt after the bombing had destroyed nearly a half-million dollars worth of equipment and on-going research.

Then again, perhaps the old man was looking in on the young Parker boy who had been housed in an underground suite since his birth. Willy had accompanied his boss to the suite several times over the years, generally when a change of nurse or tutor was deemed necessary for one reason or another. The boy had to be six or seven years old now and the image of his parents: people that Willy knew had no idea that they had even engendered an offspring. Mr. Raines had insisted that the boy be called "Master Parker", hopefully ensuring that when the authority of the Centre fell on young shoulders, it would fall to one trained from infancy to inherit what it REALLY meant to be of the Parker line.

Sharp ears caught the sound of footsteps outside the office doors, so that Willy had turned and was facing the door as Mr. Raines pushed through. "Good morning, sir," the sweeper intoned as he did every morning at approximately this time.

"Good morning, Willy," Mr. Raines wheezed and walked as briskly as he could toward his chair.

Willy knew the routine. Already he was moving toward the closet that held the little cart that housed the oxygen tank that would nourish Mr. Raines' damaged lungs while within Centre walls and/or on Centre business. The small tank that the old man carried with him while commuting to or from work was only sufficient for an hour or two; Mr. Raines would need the larger supply very soon.

The cart squeaked as Willy drew it from its regular storage place, something that he knew Raines used as part of his own intimidation factor. The sound of that little cart coming closer down a Centre corridor had been enough to make many of the more able-bodied employees blanch, and that sight could make Willy snicker faster than almost anything. That wheel would never see a spot of oil, not for as long as Mr. Raines had anything to say about the matter. Willy held out a hand and received the small commuter oxygen tank and disconnected the plastic line from it, and then connected it to the more sufficient tank on the cart and turned the valve on.

Mr. Raines pulled his first breath of oxygen and then smiled at his bodyguard. "Go and see if Mr. Lyle is in yet," he ordered in another wheeze. "If he is, bring him back with you. We're going to begin a new project, and we need to get started on it as soon as possible."

"Yes, sir."

As he walked through the glass doors, Willy noticed that Dolores, Mr. Raines' current secretary, had also finally arrived and had had a chance to settle down in her seat just in front of the office doors. "Good morning, sir," she greeted him as she generally did in the mornings. Dolores, like most of the others, didn't like to meet Willy's gaze – but for another reason entirely. She'd caught him staring at her one day several years ago, not know that he was tossing over the option of making an exception in her case of not doing his big-city hunting in the tiny berg of Blue Cove, and his expression had scared her to death. Deciding that discretion in his own back yard was the wiser course, Willy had nonetheless enjoyed the power her refusal to look at him had denoted over the time since then. Walking just a bit slower past her desk, appreciating the ambience his presence aroused, was a pleasure never to missed and always to be savored.

But only for so long.

His steps sped up slightly as he walked back down the corridor to the elevator. Strong-arming Mr. Lyle to come up for a conference with Mr. Raines was one of the high points in his day when nothing else bigger was shaking. He was sure that was why Mr. Raines continually sent him down to fetch the man rather than just have his secretary call Lyle's for just that reason – and because Willy's strong-arm tactics accomplished a more personal agenda for Mr. Raines as well. In that particular instance, their tastes and preferences coincided perfectly.

Being the power behind the throne of the Centre had its perks after all.


	8. Voices

Chapter 8: Voices

The smell of the vent had changed, a subtle but definite hint of dust and unopened rooms had been added to the ambient smell. It was the way that Angelo knew that he'd made it to the absolute bottom of the Centre facility, to the sublevel that was no longer in use and remembered only by a very few. The short and child-like man heaved a sigh of relief. Down here he was safe, safe and secure and protected from those who walked the halls of the levels above him. He didn't need light down here; light was for those who walked where there were things to trip and fall over or other people to bump into. Here in the darkness, he was alone and the way was clear. And here in the darkness of the ventilation system of the abandoned bottom sublevel of the Centre, he was finally free.

Angelo leaned against the cool metal and smiled softly to himself. Silence lived here, and silence was a friend. Below, in the people part of the abandoned sublevel, all was silent too, the screams and the moans of those who were once here long lost to the silence. Angelo remembered. He had once screamed down here too…

Fists pressed against his eyes. No! Angelo wasn't going to remember. Angelo was here to rest, to be in the forgotten place where THEY never came. Determined and very familiar with the path, Angelo got on his hands and knees and proceeded down the metal tunnel counting to himself. There! A breath of stale air coming from the left told him it was time to turn. Not much further…

His knees hurt from being thrown back into his cell an hour earlier – discarded by Breathing Man after not betraying Friend's location yet again – but Angelo didn't mind. He was almost to the Safe Place, where nobody came and nobody knew.

Breathing Man was always angry, always planning hurtful things, and Angelo was always glad when his time with him was finished. Even being thrown into the cell was a relief, although having to hear the thoughts in the mind of the Dark Sweeper who was always at Breathing Man's beck and call was a small torture in itself. Angelo didn't like the memories in Dark Sweeper's mind – of women, of hitting, of shooting guns – and half of the struggle made while being dragged from one place to the next was to get away from the overwhelming malevolence that was Dark Sweeper's mind. Angelo knew Dark Sweeper saw him as a bug or something less than human. Angelo didn't care, as long as Dark Sweeper went away as quickly as possible.

No Thumb had been there too. Angelo didn't like No Thumb either. The thoughts and memories in No Thumb's mind made Dark Sweeper an angel by comparison. Angelo stopped moving and curled into a fetal ball for a moment as the memory of the things he saw in No Thumb's mind battered at him until the tears ran freely. No Thumb had touched him today, grabbed his chin and tried to communicate something. But all Angelo had heard were the memories of evil, bad things and evil, bad intentions for Daughter and Friend and Mentor – and Angelo had screamed. Even now, he whimpered.

Why? Why want such bad things for Daughter? She thought him Brother, but he wasn't. No Thumb knows he's not Brother; so does Breathing Man. They hate Daughter, think she's weak, like Mommy. They hate Daddy too, because Daddy…

Daddy did something to protect Daughter! Even though Daddy didn't love Daughter – knew he wasn't the real Daddy – he cared enough to…

Angelo snarled and got back to his hands and knees. Not for Angelo to remember, he mumbled as he crawled along as quickly as he could. Need to get to the Safe Place.

Only in the Safe Place did THEY stop invading his mind, filling it with a chaotic mess of voices and screams and whispers. Only in the Safe Place could Angelo sleep, and Angelo was exhausted.

Breathing Man had wanted to know where Friend was; but Friend was long gone, and Angelo wouldn't tell Breathing Man anything about where he was. Angelo was good at making Breathing Man THINK he didn't understand by answering the questions in Breathing Man's mind with riddles only Angelo knew the answers to, and Breathing Man didn't have the patience to make much effort. No Thumb kept trying to use hurt; the last time, it had been the chair of…

No! Angelo flung himself back against the side of the vent and pressed his fists into his eyes again. No Thumb isn't here! No Thumb doesn't come into the Safe Place. Think of something else – something that doesn't hurt…

Friend. Angelo would think of Friend. Slowly he got back to his hands and knees and began crawling again.

Friend was free, away from the screams and the locked doors and the stuff Breathing Man called "food." Angelo had been free for a while, and been free with Friend for a while. Angelo had almost found Timmy again; but then a little boy had needed to be a little boy, and Angelo had decided to stay Angelo.

That was the day that Daughter had been filled with strange, soft, sad thoughts.

Angelo smiled. Daughter was nice, even when she pretended to be mean. Daughter's mind used to be hard and full of Daddy's words, but now she was always sad and lonely. Daughter didn't know that Angelo was Brother – No Thumb and Breathing Man had changed the papers – but Daughter didn't think of Angelo like a bug anymore. Daughter used soft words, and never hurt.

Daughter understood hurt. Daughter had been hurt. Angelo flinched; he hadn't wanted to glimpse into Daughter's mind, but things she tried to keep hidden from herself and others were the first things that he'd seen. How could she love Daddy when he'd hit her – and done those other things? How did she live with the sense of loneliness? Angelo was afraid for Daughter; her world had collapsed now.

Angelo could tell the Mentor. Maybe HE could talk to Daughter… Mentor was another who never hurt, never even pretended to be mean. Mentor could be cold and distant, but it wasn't a hurting cold. Mentor wanted to be good and kind, and Mentor held that image of himself. Mentor had things in his mind that he hid from too, but so rarely touched Angelo to give access to that part of his thoughts that Angelo wasn't quite sure what it was that Mentor didn't want to remember. Only once had Angelo gotten a glimpse: of a face that filled Mentor with anger and grief, of stark buildings and a sharp, acrid smell that brought the hackles of horror up on the back of his neck. No, Angelo didn't WANT to know what Mentor wanted to forget.

But no. Talking to Mentor – talking to anybody above – meant being up there with THEM. Angelo's mind broke when THEY were in it; and up there, THEY were always there. Mentor would try – Mentor always did – to understand the words Angelo used. But Angelo didn't know how to tell Mentor everything, and Mentor didn't want to open his mind so that Angelo could tell him that way.

Mentor could hear THEM too; so could Daughter. But neither of them allowed THEM in. Angelo wanted to know how to shut THEM out too, but Mentor couldn't understand and Daughter didn't want to know about THEM either – not anymore – not after learning about Mommy and Other Brother.

Angelo sighed as the walls of the metal tunnel moved away, giving him more room to move. This was the Safe Place, made roomy when Angelo had quietly disassembled and removed the machines that had once filled it. Angelo's knowing fingers sought and found the mattress from one of the abandoned cells above and the blanket that went with it. Both had come from the stone cell next to his, taken very, very long ago. Angelo rolled onto the mattress and pulled the blanket over himself.

Now he could rest. THEY were gone, the voices and the thoughts of those who lived and walked the halls of this place belonged to the other places. Down here, in the pit at the bottom of the pit, in the darkness and silence, Angelo could escape the constant pressure and invasion. Here Angelo could be Angelo.

But not for long.

Breathing Man or No Thumb always had new work for Angelo, always was looking for Angelo. They expected Angelo to be in the ducts above. Angelo didn't want Them down in the darkness and silence looking for him – no, he didn't! The Safe Place was HIS secret; and the only way to keep it a secret was to use it only sparingly, at those times when Angelo felt like his mind were going to burst.

Daughter and Mentor had once almost found the Safe Place. They had discovered the dark, forgotten level and come with lanterns and chatter and thoughts. They'd found some of Friend's papers that Angelo had secreted away once and later come back for them. But Angelo had been there first; the papers were now here, in the Safe Place with Angelo. Angelo put out a knowing hand and found the thick and tightly bound stacks of file folders and papers. Angelo would keep those papers safe until Friend could use them.

Here, too, was the cardboard box of little silver circles with talking pictures that made people laugh or cry or angry. Friend had one set, Angelo had the other. Daddy had been so angry when they'd been taken, and Mentor had been adamant that HIS set was necessary if they were ever going to find Friend. Angelo knew Mentor had been protecting Friend a bit and that Mentor's set wasn't complete. Even Friend didn't have ALL the little silver circles. Only Angelo's set was complete. Angelo could put his hand into the box and bring out a circle and see what had happened, see the things that Breathing Man or Daddy or No Thumb wanted forgotten He didn't need the machine.

That was why they hated Friend: they thought HE had the other circles and would use them one day to make trouble. They hated Friend because he'd managed to get out too, although Angelo got out regularly and it didn't seem to bother them as much. Maybe it was because Friend wasn't HERE. Angelo shook his head. Friend was safer Out There. Only Angelo was safer In Here. Angelo had the Safe Place.

Angelo felt along next to the mattress and found the little box that he'd left here the last time he'd visited. The tasty treat would be a little stale, but it would keep the stomach from growling. Angelo wondered when Daughter would very quietly buy more of the boxes with the toy surprise inside and then leave them in a hidden corner of her office for him to find. Daughter remembered. Daughter was nice.

He pulled his hand back in under the blanket and pulled it up under his chin. This made the Safe Place even safer: tucking the blanket under the chin was something that Timmy could remember from the Before Time. Angelo whimpered and clung to the blanket, waiting for the warmth to soothe his mind as it always did. He wouldn't think about Timmy or the Before Time. Timmy was gone. THEY were gone. The Before Time was gone. Here in the silence, there was only Angelo and Now; and Angelo was tired and the blanket was warm and safe.

Maybe one day he would go to sleep down here and never wake up. Maybe one day the Safe Place would swallow him and keep him safe forever.

As Angelo drifted off to sleep, he found that thought as soothing as the blanket.


	9. Just One More Pretend

Chapter 9: Just One More Pretend

There!

Fingers pressed the newsprint against the thin coating of rubber cement so that it would adhere to the page of the red notebook and finish the story, then carefully creased the newsprint so that an article that was larger than the notebook page could fit. Then the hands left the newly-glued article to dry while it closed the bottle of rubber cement carefully against the next time it would be needed and slipped it into the duffel bag in the pocket that held several other red notebooks. There were still quite a few remaining empty and waiting for stories of real life drama and tragedy to fill them, although the number grew steadily smaller.

Jarod glanced back at the newsprint and smiled again. Seeing the picture of Evan Jergens struggling to keep his face from being exposed in the media had made the effort to nail him for his crimes worth it. The man, generally known as a wealthy philanthropist in this part of the country, had found all kinds of ways to very quietly and secretly prey on the flood of runaway children who always managed to find their way to the city; he deserved exposure for what he really was. Suddenly all that money that had funded shelters and soup kitchens was exposed as the bait it really had been, and Jarod's payback scheme had left Jergens with very little option but to plead guilty to the charges against him.

With a sigh, Jarod rose and walked over to the window of the warehouse loft that he'd rented for the past two weeks. He'd never bothered to clean the glass, so the view of the factory district street below was smudged and obscured in places. Now that his latest Pretend was finished, he wouldn't bother to clean the glass either – no, this would be the last night he spent in the city for a while. He'd been here too long – this was the third Pretend he'd carried out in New York in the last three months – and it was time to think about relocating.

The Pretender sighed and turned away from the street scene to survey the place he'd called "home" lately. It had few amenities: a cot from the local army surplus store had been his bed, and there was a table and chair that had been hastily crafted from spare lumber being thrown away at a construction site. No pictures hung from the walls, no curtains hung at the windows.

Not that he could clearly remember what it was like to have a "real" home; his memories of his early years with his parents were few and very vague, and the environment he'd been raised in had been not a whole lot better than the loft. He kept telling himself that "home" was a state of mind, and that anyplace where he felt comfortable laying his head at night would qualify. But it was in the quiet moments like this one, when there was no need for him to be madly setting up his next Pretend or SIMming the responses of the people involved, that the fallacy of his insistence would be painfully clear.

There _was_ an alternative, of course, one he couldn't quite talk himself into taking yet. His parents, once they'd been reunited, had settled in a small farming community in Wisconsin. They, along with Ethan and Brian, the boy who'd been cloned from Jarod, were now farming several hundred acres, raising corn on some of the land and keeping dairy cattle on the rest of it. Major Charles Russell had made it plain that both he and his wife desired and hoped their oldest son would one day feel safe enough to stop his gallivanting across the country and come home. Every time he spoke to one of them on the phone, they reminded him that his place, his "home," was with them.

He'd been to the farm several times for a quick visit, and then found reason to leave again after only a few days. It had taken a teary confrontation with his mother for him to finally spend the time to analyze why he couldn't stay in one place, and he'd been disgusted with himself once he'd traced the cause of his wanderlust. He'd put himself beneath the Centre's radar at last, never leaving clues to his next Pretend for Miss Parker or Sydney to follow or allowing his face or name to be exposed in the media at all, and yet he was still looking over his shoulder.

Staying in one place for more than a week made him very nervous, especially when he didn't have the camouflage of an alias and a Pretend employment to hide behind. On the farm, he was just Jarod Russell, a name that the Centre would surely recognize and come after with all due haste. He couldn't bring the Centre down on his family again, not after all the years that the threat the Centre posed had forced his father and mother to live separate lives. Emily might be safe in Philadelphia – the notoriety of Lyle's attack on her playing out on the front page something that the Centre didn't want repeated – but the farm was just a little too open, too exposed to vulnerable.

Ethan and Brian were prospering there, however, in a more stable and unchanging environment; and Jarod took a great deal of satisfaction from that. Both of them were young enough that a steady diet of love and caring from nurturing parents could undo at least some of the harm that had scarred him far too deeply now. Ethan had begun working at a local farming supply company, and Brian was quietly working his way through the first years of community college, never quite letting on to his instructors that he could be teaching the courses he was taking.

Jarod moved to the little table and unplugged his laptop from the power cord and began packing it away in its black canvas carrying case, debating and then deciding against taking another "dumpster run" into the Centre mainframe to make sure that there were no sweeper teams closing in on him. He'd been careful – left no clues anywhere that anybody could interpret – and he'd be just as cautious this time around. It had been years since his last contact with anybody there. They weren't going to find him.

A wry snort expressed his opinion of his conflicted attitude. Sydney would have a field day trying to analyze and help him sort through the emotions and reasons for his extreme wariness, but he didn't dare call his old mentor. That would give the Centre a thread to begin following, and he was done with the "I run, they chase" game.

Wasn't he?

He sagged to a seat on the edge of the cot. He was living the "I run, they chase" game even though they _weren't_ chasing any longer. It didn't matter that the Centre had no clue where to look for him, he _lived_ as if they were just around the corner. He'd never considered that he could be just as trapped, just as imprisoned, by the _idea_ as by the real chase – but here was the evidence, staring him in the face. He was still running, and with no earthly reason to do so.

Was this going to be the shape of his future: living in blocks of time no larger than a few weeks spent as one Pretend or another? Was there never going to be a time when he'd stop running and settle down to figure out who Jarod Russell really was? Was it a question of security for his family or rather a conditioned paranoia that kept him from grabbing the next bus to Minnesota and a farm filled with love and mutual concern?

If Sydney were here, he wouldn't let Jarod flinch from examining the deeper emotions – the ones that were the true drivers of the situation – but the fact was that he _wasn't_ here. Jarod was aware enough to realize that he'd never face those inner demons alone, and that he didn't dare take a clandestine trip to Blue Cove and camp in Sydney's home to get the help he so desperately needed.

Sydney couldn't be trusted – not completely – and Sydney lived too close to the Centre for comfort.

Jarod threw the duffel bag onto the floor and leaned back onto the cot, one arm thrown over his eyes. He hated his life – his lack of a real life – but didn't know how to take the first step to claiming his freedom from the evil that dwelled in his mind. Even if the Centre was clueless, there were sweepers just around the corners in his mind, just as they'd been for his entire life.

He knew what he had to do. He had to face down his fears – to go back to the farm and discipline himself to stay put and begin to put down roots there – just to prove to himself that the demons in his mind were impotent if _he_ decided they were. He sat straight up on the cot. That's what he had to do, as difficult as it was!

He rose and walked over to the little table and moved the laptop case aside to find where he'd tossed the cell phone. As he waited for the call to connect, his eyes landed on the newspaper from which he'd cut his Pretend finale, and a small article about a lost child in California.

"Hi Mom, it's me," he spoke into the phone at the sound of a woman's voice.

"Jarod!" Margaret sounded thrilled. "How are you? Where are you?"

"New York still," he replied, one half of his mind keeping up with the conversation, the other half intent on reading the article. The girl, 12, had been camping in Yosemite and walked to the store for her mother, and never returned.

"Don't you get tired of big city life?" Margaret asked, knowing her son's preference for big cities came from the ease with which he could lose himself in the mass of humanity.

"Sometimes." The girl was the third young woman to disappear from Yosemite in the past year and a half, and none had been found yet. "How are Dad and the boys?"

"Dad's out planting right now, Ethan's at work and Brian's in town at school. I'm volunteering my time at the hospital a couple of days a week now." Margaret sounded pleased that he was actually asking about the daily life. "I'm hoping this call means you're going to come home at last?"

"I'm thinking about it," Jarod replied, folding the paper and tearing the small article from its depths carefully. "I have just one more Pretend, and then I'm going to come home, Mom."

"Oh, Jarod…" It was hard to tell if her voice was shaky because she was happy or because she was disappointed at the delay.

"I promise, Mom. Just one more, and then I'm coming home."

There was a long pause. "We're all looking forward to seeing you," she offered finally. "Do you have any idea when you'll get here?"

"Give it about a month." Jarod was suddenly energized. "I gotta go now, Mom. Give my love to Dad and the others."

"I will, son. You take good care."

"I will. Bye." He punched the button on the cell phone and thrust the device in his pocket.

He wouldn't even think about the fact that this was the fourth time he'd had a similar conversation with his mother – the fourth time he'd promised "just one more".

He had a plane to catch, a Pretend to plan, and a Centre to stay one step ahead of.

Life goes on.


	10. Patience

Chapter 10: Patience

Lyle glanced down at his wristwatch and then watched from behind the one-way mirrored glass as the scientist in the lab slowly injected the quaking subject with the new drug that had truth-serum properties on top of its hallucinogenic – as well as other, less beneficial – side-effects. He had always found it interesting and informative to be there when the inevitable overdose testing began, seeing the various ways the powerful pharmaceuticals the Centre was developing took hold of the human test subjects had become a favorite pass-time in the years since his association with the Centre had become official. What was more, Mr. Raines now depended upon his attendance to these tests for first-hand observations, which then would play a large part of determining whether or not the research team involved earned a bonus for a completed project. After all, as Chairman, Mr. Raines was expected to keep at least a façade of plausible deniability between his Tower office and knowledge of these more nefarious uses of Centre research.

The otherwise innocuous-looking executive with the cold and glittering ice-blue gaze watched with mouth slightly open in avid expectation as the thin man's eyes rolled back into his head and then sagged against the firm hold of the sweepers. With a gesture, the scientist directed that the man be deposited upon a gurney and strapped into place, and the sweepers didn't delay in implementing those orders even as the first hints of a full-fledged convulsion made every extremity of the unconscious man twitch.

Lyle looked down at his watch. The drug had taken only thirty seconds to render the subject unconscious, only forty-five seconds to induce convulsions. As the twitching and thrashing grew more violent as each moment passed, Lyle turned and gave a satisfied nod to the scientist who had stayed at his side through this phase of the testing. "Very effective," Lyle told him with a smile. "Was the injection intramuscular or intravenous?"

"Intramuscular, sir," the scientist beamed, thrilled to be receiving such open approval from his superior. "One of the directives on this drug was that it had to be effectively administered by other than medical personnel and through covert means. Simple subcutanious absorption was the goal. "

Behind the one-way glass, the test subject continued to thrash and flail futilely against the broad, padded leather restraints, the movements getting even more violent as time passed. A trickle of white foam erupted from between his lips and then was sprayed across the room and onto the researchers as the head began flew back and forth in a movement that looked violent enough to be causing whiplash. Unintelligible moans and cries began to erupt from the man's lips, as if the air were being forced through the vocal cords without any conscious control at all.

He couldn't help it. Lyle's mind immediately substituted the anonymous test subject's face for another's that he wished could undergo the same process. A wash of pleasure made his body tingle at the thought of Mr. Raines flailing on the table like a fish out of water – or Jarod. His smile grew wider. Yes, this would be something to visit upon that damned Pretender if and/or when they ever caught him again, although getting permission to subject Jarod to this particular treatment might be a little difficult. This new drug had a documented side effect of residual paranoia and a tendency to petit mal seizures, and Mr. Raines would have his Pretender back in good health and ready to pick up his duties where he'd left off to escape.

No, Raines would be the more satisfying subject of those two. After all these years of being the cause of pain, what better consequence than to be brought low during a drug testing phase. Few would deserve it as much as Mr. Raines…

Or Miss Parker…

The smile grew wider still, and more predatory. Miss Parker had been a thorn in his side and a potential rival when the time came to choose someone to run the Centre after Mr. Raines was no longer in the picture. A propitious dart, duly prepared with a healthy overdose of this drug, would take care of her quite nicely… Then again, a propitious dart, duly prepared with a strong sedative and a team of sweepers loyal to him and him alone, could provide him with days and weeks worth of quality entertainment and pleasure.

His mind smoothed itself over his latest view of his twin sister's tall, slender, long-legged figure; and the lower part of his body twitched in healthy appreciation. He'd not been raised thinking of her as off-limits, and even now, with their relationship defined officially as "twins", he couldn't help letting his mind wander down to a familiar fantasy of the two of them together: hot, sweating, blood-pounding, animalistic…

No! He frowned suddenly. The orders from his African bosses had made matters very plain to him a long time ago. Miss Parker was not to be harmed – not to be touched – least of all by HIM. If she continued to disappoint, there would be ways to deal with her that didn't include his participation, but the Triumvirate reserved the right of discipline when it came to his sister.

Raines knew this; it was the reason the old man hadn't already had her boxed up and shipped down to the Renewal Wing for reprogramming. Old Man Parker's blackmail – the threat that information would reach the proper people to destroy the Centre should anything happen to his "Angel" – had outlived the old man himself. The Triumvirate was reluctant to test whether the old man had been lying when he'd told them that he wouldn't need to do anything, but that it was Parker's continued wellbeing that kept all those secrets locked away from public exposure, not anything anybody did. As a result, they had ordered Raines and Lyle to leave her alone for the most part. To push her to excellence and to demonstrate what should be the spirit of the Centre, yes, but not to harm.

Besides, Miss Parker had a loyal contingent about her. Despite any dysfunctional interpersonal relationships among the team that had ostensibly been responsible for the debaucle of NOT being able to recapture the escaped Pretender, the loyalty factor had never been open to debate. Broots, Sydney and Sam were very obviously, very firmly on Miss Parker's side in just about every scrape the two of them had squared off in; no doubt the three stooges would step in and protect her even to their own disadvantage, if the situation warranted it. Add that to the directive to keep hands off from the Triumvirate, and tackling Miss Parker was unfeasible at best, unwise at any time.

No, Lyle decided, when and if the time came that HE'D be in the position of authority around here, it would be Mr. Raines who would be strapped to a gurney and watching with horror as the syringe slipped into his arm. The old monster deserved it for everything he'd ever visited on a Centre associate, and most especially for a lifetime of abuse and neglect of a sensitive and intelligent young boy named Bobby.

He couldn't forgive – hell, he couldn't forget – the 'helping hand' that Raines had lent his already abusive foster father the moment he hit his teenaged years. The woodshed, with the manacles hanging from chains and the agonized memories of being strung up and beaten until bloody with just about any tool at hand, had been Raines' idea. Until then, Lyle Bowman had been content to just use his fists and his feet, punching the stomach until Bobby had been driven to his knees, then kicking any further rebellion from the boy. Raines had introduced the idea of belts and pipes and other, even more horrific, tools.

Raines had also worked his magic on Sara Bowman, eroding her ability to stand up to her husband when she thought he was going too far with the physical discipline of their one and only foster son. Psychosis had been very carefully and deliberately introduced until the poor woman wasn't sure exactly WHAT she was seeing or hearing at any point of time. The last time he'd seen her, she'd been yelling at dogs that only existed in her mind.

Luckily, Raines hadn't been the only one keeping track of his development during those long, dark, lonely, painful adolescent years. After killing his best friend, he'd quietly stolen every last dime his foster mother had in her purse and headed for the big city, where Obanda N'kende had somehow found him and convinced him to come to Africa. Away from the horror of Raines' idea of training, Lyle had bloomed and flourished. The Triumvirate had taught him business administration and the art of the assassin. A few years of apprenticeship in Cambodia had instilled an obsession with the taste of human flesh and the incredibly complex and satisfying ritual hunt that came before the meal. The Triumvirate, he knew, was quietly hoarding evidence of his complicity in those acts as proof against the day that he rebelled against THEM.

He'd been returned to the Centre a new man, no longer merely psychotic but rather carefully and very deliberately sociopathic, a man the Triumvirate could oversee in the bosom of the Centre administration. He'd faltered in establishing himself; there had been missteps that had nearly cost him his position with the Triumvirate and, when Jarod had gotten a hold of him, nearly cost him his freedom and his life. But he'd been smart – as he'd been bred to be – and he'd not only survived but prospered.

And now he was chafing under Raines. Again.

"So what do you think?"

The scientist's voice broke through the reverie and made Lyle almost jump in surprise and shock. Lyle glared at the man at first, and then shrugged. Now that he'd been brought back to the present moment, he could see that the test subject was limp and moaning weakly on the gurney, a medical technician listening with an intent look on his face. The test subject gave a sudden, huge gasp and then collapsed back. The technician began working feverishly, pounding on the man's chest and calling for the crash cart.

"I think that your report on this phase of the testing process will be very interesting reading," Lyle replied very pleasantly. "I'm sure the Chairman will be pleased to see your diligence and attention to detail."

The scientist, a short and spare man with thinning mousy hair, round wire-rim glasses and a drooping mustache, puffed up in excitement. "All the other tests have gone exactly as expected. I think Inversion will fit the description of desired results precisely."

"As I said," Lyle nodded blandly, beginning to move away from the one-way glass toward the door, "your report should prove riveting. Be sure to have it on my desk by the end of the day." He spared a look for the still form on the gurney beyond the glass. "And be sure to dispose of the body in the regular way."

Walking from the observation room, Lyle hid a very contented, internal smile. By making the directions to the scientist very specific – that the report needed to land on HIS desk by the end of the day – he was circumventing Raines' role. Inversion, or whatever the project name was on this wonderful new drug, needed to fade in the mind of the Chairman. That way, when Lyle figured out a way to help Raines experience its effects for himself, there would be no chemical footprint to trace.

A friend in the computer lab could take care of many of the interal memos and files pertaining to the project: a conveniently disposable friend.

Lyle turned and faced the elevator door as he waited to be closed into the tiny box-like vehicle to take him from the depths of the Centre's underground facility and let him free again where the light from the sun was bright and uplifting. The day of his liberation and his ascension to the position of authority that was his by right of birth and training would be soon at hand.

All he had to be was patient.

He could do that.

**A/N: **And with this, we come to the end of our intimate "Glimpses" into the minds and hearts of our favorite characters. I hope you have enjoyed them. Thank you to Nancy, Nans and Doranwen for your wonderful reviews.


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